Wednesday 4 April 2018

Doonhame

Waif on a bike, far too big
wheels back and forth across the road
Scowling into the rain
that is turning the recycling into mush
Discarded bottle is crushed under his tyre
As he mounts the curbstone, he spits,
Flicking his rain soaked hair from his eyes, spit and flick in one movement, like the fire and recoil of a pistol.

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